


The Little Things

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [19]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Married Couple, Mild Language, Pregnancy, Rivalry, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisana begins to inquire after her sister's whereabouts when Rukia does not return from her assignment. Meanwhile, Rukia attempts to keep her head above water when Ichigo and Uryū face-off to prove who's the best hollow exterminator in Karakura Town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

 

"Lady Kuchiki?"

Hisana stops dead. She isn't expecting the sound of her name to explode from across the room, and she jolts up, thunderstruck. Without warning, her nerves begin to hum—as if the voice has proven electrifying—and her heart suddenly stops in her chest, her back goes ramrod straight, and her fingers, which were fishing in a bin of toys, seize around a small, blue, bunny plushie before going rigid.

When she glances down, she finds her hands at the bunny's throat. She looks like she is strangling the toy.  _Poor bunny. Poor nerves. Unraveling nerves._

"Lady Kuchiki!"

There it is again—her name ringing out from unfamiliar lips. This time, however, she is prepared. She exhales a deep breath, and her muscles relax. Slowly, her gaze trails to the side.

The voice isn't the least bit familiar. It is too happy, too breezy and a tiny bit stentorian. Even stranger, the voice definitely belongs to woman, which is what throws Hisana, initially. The females in Seireitei, at least the ones who feel comfortable approaching her in public, generally do not regard her with such open  _friendliness._ Guarded hostility or worse usually undulates beneath the surface of her title.

Remembering herself, Hisana turns. Oh, yes. She should be doing something, namely, greeting the unexpected stranger. "Y-ye-yes?" She botches her response as she glances up to find a vaguely-familiar-but-not-really blonde.

All it takes is a glance, and the blonde's face brightens like a firework.

Frantic, Hisana scours her memory banks. Nope. Not a single neuron lights up in recognition.  _A Vice Captain? Maybe?_  Unsure, Hisana goes with her gut instinct. If required, she will just cough through the name, tacking on a respectful sounding "Vice Captain."

Taking Hisana's expression of befuddlement as permission to proceed, the blonde inches closer. Her hips sway as she steps lightly across the floor, and her blond curls radiate in the warm afternoon light. She is a  _goddess_  if there ever was one.

How has Hisana missed this one? And what division does she call home? Hisana prays to the gods that it isn't the Sixth. Her husband would be a goner. Hell,  _she'd_  be a goner under the right circumstances.

With an effortless nod of her head, the woman beams. "You're shopping for Baby?" It sounds like an inquiry at first blush, but the woman clearly knows the answer to her own question, and her voice doesn't hide the fact. Apparently, this one doesn't really do  _subtle_.

Hisana stares at the woman for a few seconds, trying her damnedest to place the Shinigami.  _Blonde hair, blue eyes, pink scarf. I've seen her before…but…where?_  The blonde doesn't seem to be the type of woman you meet and just suddenly  _forget_ , either. She's quite pretty—porcelain skin, bright keen eyes, and a figure that is…well…technically impossible but flawless, like the gods have molded her specifically with men in mind.

A few painfully silent seconds pass before Hisana finally gives up. It appears that along with her posture, physique, and equilibrium, pregnancy has also stolen her ability to recall simple facts, like names.

"Yes." Hisana's voice, belying her apparent uncertainty, falls like a coin in a well.

Did the woman even ask a question? Hisana isn't certain, but, just in case, she fishes the blue bunny from the bin as evidence that she is… _doing something_? Cripes, things have gone from zero to awkward at a breakneck speed.

Reflexively, the woman ducks her head down and fashions a makeshift blinder with a cupped hand. "Oh, no, no," she begins, quite jovially, "I can't."

 _Can't?_  Hisana wonders.  _What does that mean? She can't what?_  Bear to look at the blue bunny that Hisana is currently throttling?  _Oh no, the poor bunny._  She will definitely have to purchase it now. The stuffing is beginning to spew from its battered neck.

"I know that must sound strange to you, Lady Kuchiki," the woman explains, apparently sensing Hisana's confusion without having to actually  _see_  it, "but, you see, I can't because I'm going to enter a pool."

Hisana cocks a brow and drops the plushie back into the bin. Her fingers, still rigid from clutching the toy, hover, motionless, in the air. "A pool?"

What does that  _mean_? Sure, summer has overtaken the spring, but it's a little too cool to go swimming. And, what would swimming have to do with not looking at toys? More importantly, who is this woman? And, why does she seem like someone Hisana  _should_  know?

"Oh." Lowering her hand-shield, the blonde flashes a toothy grin. "Yeah. You probably don't know about  _the_ betting pool."

The woman's heavy emphasis on the word "the" before "betting pool" makes whatever it is sound pretty official, as if it requires no further explanation.  _Everyone_  seemingly knows about  _the_  betting pool. Everyone is placing those  _bets_. Everyone, that is, except Hisana.

"Betting pool?" Hisana echoes.

"Yeah, it's where a bunch of—"

"I know what a betting pool  _is_ ," Hisana interjects before the blonde has a chance to finish. How naïve must the woman find her? She is from  _Inuzuri_ , after all. Gambling is a district-wide pastime. Gambling, drinking, prostitution, and felonies are the only things you can _do_  in Inuzuri. "What's the subject of the pool?"

The blonde's smile only widens at this and her brows shoot up. "The gender of your baby!"

_Duh._

Why hadn't she already assumed that? This is Seireitei, and her husband is a captain. Given the competitiveness of the men in the ranks, it should come as no surprise that they would be placing  _bets_  on the gender of a captain's baby. They place bets on everything else.

Boy, were they in for a surprise. What are the odds on twins? If she has a boy and a girl, how would they distribute the winnings?  _Would_ there be winnings? How anticlimactic. What if she has two of one gender? Do the winning bets double, then?

."Haven't you already placed your bet?" Hisana asks. Her lips draw to the side as she observes the woman.

"Not yet. I was on the fence."

"About betting?"

"No, of course not." The blonde chuckles as if the idea of her abstaining is absurd, and she waves a hand in front of her face. "About which gender to place my money on."

She's honest, at least. That's a rare virtue. "Well, I suppose you have the upper hand, then." Hisana retrieves the toy out of the bin. Yep, she's going to have to buy the damaged bunny and repair it once she returns to the manor.

"Ugh," the woman chirps and up goes the hand-shield again. "I don't want to cheat."

Hisana pauses, glances up at the woman, and shakes her head. "Oh?"

"Yeah, it would be cheating to look."

"Really?"

_That doesn't seem like cheating. It seems like good fortune._

"May I?" Still keeping her hand cupped against the side of her head to prevent her gaze from slipping down to the bin, the blonde reaches for Hisana's stomach. She doesn't wait for consent before her fingers lightly press against Hisana's swollen belly.

 _This isn't cheating? Seems more like cheating then peeking at my selection of toys_ , Hisana observes.

The woman squeezes her eyes shut, and her features harden into a look of intense concentration. When she finds the object of her search, her eyes snap open and go wide. "Boy," she says, mostly to herself. Her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink, and she shudders at the thrill of her discovery.

Hisana tucks her chin to her neck. Yep. Definitely seems like cheating,  _now_.

"I've got to go, Lady Kuchiki!" The woman's voice raises ten octaves and trills like a bird's song.

Before Hisana can bid a proper farewell, the woman is at the door, giving a limped-wristed wave. "I've gotta place that bet before it closes," the blonde says. Satisfaction glows in her eyes, and, in an instant, she is gone. All traces of her impressive reiatsu evaporate in the air.

Hisana has a sinking feeling that the woman is a talker.

_I wonder how long until everyone in Seireitei knows…._

Probably two minutes. By the end of the day, the Ninth will have a mock up. Tomorrow, the Ninth will print the story for distribution. She can only imagine what the headline will entail.

_How fantastic._

She pauses, thinking better on it. When was the last time the Ninth ran a story on her that made her life easier? Never? Never, ever. Realization hits her with the force of a train. A bullet train.

No, it's not  _fantastic_.

It is most definitely  _horrible_.

Suddenly, her eyes go as wide as saucers, her color drains from her cheeks, and her heart stammers as she considers her husband and his reaction.

 _He will be displeased_.  _No. Displeased is too generous a word. He will be…._

Hisana bites her bottom lip as the implications pummel her poor tattered mind. Suddenly, she regrets her decision to avoid learning the genders of their children. And, while it is entirely possible that the strange blonde woman is wrong in her assessment, she doubts her husband will be understanding when he reads about such news in the paper, or, worse, he hears about it secondhand.

Swimming in anxiety, she absently pays for the badgered toy, and her feet carry her to the door. The moment she steps across the threshold, a coterie of servants swarm her, whirl around her, and bludgeon her with myriad questions.

"Milady, you look pale. Are you alright?"

"Does milady need a drink of water?"

"Is milady feeling well?"

"How are the babies?"

Despite the buzzing of "miladys" and health-related questions, Hisana manages to order her thoughts, planning her response if her husband learns of the alleged gender of at least one of the children.

She will….

Her thoughts stop. Usually, by now, she has at least a few plans and a couple contingencies. But, then? She only has a choir of questions to keep her company. The sound of words pelting her is discordant and distracting, frustratingly so.

Just how many servants and guards does her husband think is necessary to keep her protected within Seireitei?

By her count, her personal detail has swelled four-fold. She is just one person, and, given her present condition, she isn't exactly going to make a swift getaway even if she was of the mind to do so.

"Lady Kuchiki?"

The sound of her name stills her muscles, and she halts.

Now,  _that_  voice she knows.

She turns and glances up. "Vice Captain." Before her eyes drift to his face, her suspicions are confirmed the moment she spots the thick inky bands of his black tattoos. "Abarai." A smile breaks across her face.

He stares down at her, shifty-eyed and unfocused. His muscles twitch slightly, as if he is repressing the urge to escape, and his lips compress into a tight line. She wonders why he regards her with such apprehension. Has she done something, recently? Has her husband? Rukia?

 _Rukia_.

Yes, Rukia has been away on assignment for some time now. At least, Hisana thinks she has been on assignment. The last time her sister took an extended leave from the manor, it was at Byakuya's request. Apparently, he heard Rukia sniffling, and, suspecting the impending cold that would later manifest, he summarily sent her away to the Thirteenth's barracks with the express order not to return until she was well. His justification? He was afraid her infection would spread to Hisana and harm his unborn heirs.

At the memory, Hisana shakes her head. Needless to say, Byakuya had not consulted her when he exiled Rukia to the Thirteenth.

Yet, to her knowledge, her husband has not sent Rukia away. Rukia should still be on assignment.  _But_ …. It's been over a month. Isn't there a rule about that? Something about time limits on travels to the World of the Living?

"Lady Kuchiki," Renji murmurs, bowing his head respectfully. "I haven't quite assumed the duties of a Vice Captain."

"No?" Color her shocked. She is certain the newly appointed Vice Captains assumed their assignments at the beginning of the month.

"I have one final duty." Diffidently, his gaze trails to the side.

Hisana observes her walking companion. Her gaze is piercing, but the wall around his heart proves to be surprisingly impenetrable. He worries, that much she can tell from his aberrant level of evasiveness. Usually, he is so… _much_ —lively, cocky. Renji usually moves and speaks with this ineffable air about him; it is a cross between breathless and reckless. It is as if the world is moving too slowly for his whims and desires. No one can keep up. In a word, he seems  _young_ , full of youthful indiscretion, brio and bravado, like a young colt, which has just discovered how to run and will not stand for a slower pace.

Today, however, Renji is none of those things. The world suddenly seems unbearable to him. His brow is heavy, betraying his anxiety, and his gait is leaden. Whatever emotion imbues his heart, it is particularly burdensome. It practically drags the boy down, pulling him deeper into a state of abject misery with each step.

Hisana swallows her concern.

If Renji is anything like her husband, asking won't do anything but force him to retreat further into himself. Pride bolts his tongue firmly into place. Worse yet, male ego will strangle him, render him dumb and numb to whatever tortures him. So, instead of confronting a wounded animal head on, she  _pretends_  everything is just as it should be, just as it always is. A diversion will loosen him up, any will do. "If you don't mind my asking, what is your last item of business with the Eleventh?"

He eyes her, a quick sidelong glance. It is slight, almost imperceptible, but the lugubrious veil lifts from his countenance, and he responds with a relieved, "The Eleventh has retained me for their kickball team."

He's caught onto her digression.

"Ah," she murmurs, pensively. Yes, she recollects reading about the tourney. The Ninth has heavily advertised the event in the paper, big splashy promotions. They really went all out. She should have the dates and times memorized by now, but, again, soon-to-be-mommy brain has stolen her memories, and the details elude her. "When does this game begin?" Her brows rise, and she flashes an easy smile.

"Today."

"Today is your last obligation, I take it?"

He nods. "Yes."

"What time?"

"The games commenced three days ago, but the Eleventh is due to start in an hour."

A sly smile lengthens her lips. Without provocation, an idea grips her with such burning intensity that she cannot shake it. "Vice Captain," she insists on the title despite Abarai's cautious glance, "would you mind escorting me to the field?"

At last, she has something with which to occupy her thoughts. She has been going stir-crazy at the manor. Indeed, her halls have become cold. Permafrost sets her quarters, and Aunt Masuyo's teary-eyed stares are just as icy. Hisana cannot stand being contained a moment longer in the frigid cage that slowly envelopes her.

Renji's eyes soften at her request, and he gives his consent with a dip of his head. "Of course, Lady Kuchiki."

She feels a pang of guilt upon receiving the newly minted Vice Captain's glance, but she does not rescind her inquiry. It is a survival tactic, and she knows that she cannot thrive in the stifling setting that her husband has designed.

"My sincerest gratitude, Vice Captain," she says and gives a shallow bow, one that is proper for their respective ranks.

Renji stares, shocked at her action. Reflexively, he leans forward, and his hands hover over her shoulders. She can tell that he wants to force her back straight. Burning on his lips is a request that never comes, but his eyes bid her all the same. With a panicked look, he implores her never to bow to him again.

 _How strange_ , Hisana thinks.  _How quaint_. He hasn't quite adjusted to his newfound status, forgetting they are on the same level, now. She is only a Lady, after all. Vice Captains and consorts of highborn stand shoulder to shoulder in the rigid hierarchy of Soul Society. Not that she minds the sudden shift in relative power. He deserves her acknowledgment and better. He has earned his place as her equal.

"You don't have to," he whispers, tripping over his words and, worse, his own feet, "do that!"

Hisana inclines her head and feigns polite ignorance at his gaffes, choosing, instead, to focus on the horizon. "Of course I do," she replies at length, "As will all below you, a population that has grown exponentially, Vice Captain."

This news perturbs him slightly, which is unfortunate. The poor boy was already on edge. Whatever sliver of muscle fiber that escaped the prior lockdown, is not so lucky now. He walks, limbs stiff and back set as rigid as a board. His gaze locks on the ground, and he clenches his jaw.

Hisana observes his pained expression. The words never come to her despite her greatest efforts to break the tension. It isn't the bow, she knows. It isn't the Eleventh or the kickball tournament. There is something dark growing in the confines of his mind, and, judging by the guilt that flickers in his fleeting glances, she has a strong suspicion that whatever perturbs Renji concerns Rukia.

Her heart chills at the prospect that something has gone horribly awry for her sister. Quietly, she tries her best to order her thoughts, to compose a question or force a situation where Renji will placate her fracturing thoughts. Nothing sticks. By the time they arrive to the field, all she has are a few threads of conversation and only a vague idea of how to string them together.

Ever the gentleman, Renji helps her into the stands, where she settles quite comfortably. At her bidding, the retinue of servants lingers outside the event, and, for that she is grateful. Wordlessly, Renji takes a seat beside her, and he turns his attention to the game, the Tenth versus the Eighth. To the surprise of absolutely no one, the Tenth is miles ahead of the Eighth, but the Eighth makes a very rousing rally at the end of the game.

The Tenth wins, and, as victors, they are given a few moments to regroup before they face off against the Eleventh.

Arching a brow, Hisana glimpses Renji out of the corner of her eye. "The Sixth?" she asks, half-knowing what the answer will be.

"The rule-keepers."

_Of course._

Law and order bind the Sixth, seemingly beating the division into place like a hammer to a nail. And, suddenly, Hisana recognizes both Mihane and Rikichi running back and forth at the sidelines. Both soldiers carry heavy books at their sides. Sweat glistens on their brows, and they speak in short clipped voices. Both of them appear utterly exhausted and a great deal bewildered.

"The Eleventh doesn't keep the rules?" Hisana smiles slyly at her observation-cum-question.

Renji cocks a brow. "The Eleventh doesn't  _read_ the rules."

This response amuses Hisana. A smile breaks across her visage. "I see. What of the Thirteenth, Vice Captain?"

" _Worse._ "

Hisana cocks her head to the side. This response is not the one that she had envisioned. "Oh?" By all accounts, the Thirteenth is perfectly agreeable, always on the up-and-up as far as the squads go.

"Yeah." An impish half-grin pulls a corner of Renji's mouth. He takes some pleasure at catching her unawares. "The Thirteenth knows the rules, but its heart chooses which of them to follow."

Her smile widens, and she shakes her head. "A good division, then." Instantly, everything snaps into place—particularly  _why_  her husband was so bent on securing a position at the Thirteenth for Rukia. It wasn't because he is an intimate acquaintance of Captain Ukitake; although, that surely helped. It was because, secretly, he longed for a place where his own heart could write the rules of law. His greatest wish was for Rukia to find her own moral compass, and, more importantly, to follow it.

Unlike the ethos of the Thirteenth, the Sixth's moral compass is harsh and set. Its rules are determined by politicians and power-hungry nobles and soldiers. Its laws are written in the finest black ink and in the most arresting calligraphy, but they are products of impure intentions and backroom dealing, not the heart. The desire to imbue the law with justice falls to concerns of keeping power maintained and of keeping those without power nailed into place. The law stands cold, harsh, and corruptible, just like the minds and thoughts of its sponsors.

Byakuya knows this.

She knows this.

Renji and Rukia? Hopefully, they still cling to pure-hearted idealism. Hopefully, they believe the law's spirit is ethical and just. And, hopefully, nothing will convince them otherwise.

Renji lowers his head. A private smile melts the tension that sets his face. "Seems that way," he murmurs under his breath.

Hisana inhales a deep breath before she lets the chips fall. "Rukia—" Her heart wavers. She doesn't finish, couldn't find the courage. Even if she had twisted the words from her heart, Renji interrupts her before her hesitation morphs into frigid silence, like a suspended dagger.

His muscles jump up, as if her words were a live wire, shooting a painful electrical current down his spine. "I—" Nervously, he rubs the back of his neck as he tries to find the words. He stops. He starts. A few spluttering noncommittal words escape him before he regains his composure. "I don't know if Rukia told you, but—"

"Is Rukia alright?"

Their words overlap. Consonants, low and reedy, careen together until all meaning is lost in the collision. Both attempt to piece together the words, try to find their place in the conversation.

Hisana's brows knit together. There is no use, not when they are obviously having two different conversations. Renji thinks Rukia  _told_  Hisana something perturbing. She didn't. Hisana, however, is worried after her sister's safety, a fear that Renji does not seem to share.

"Forgive me for my interruption, but is Rukia alright? I ask because her mission has been rather  _protracted_." Protracted and borderline treasonous, is  _what_  Hisana wants to say, but she holds those sentiments back for the time being. She doesn't want to arouse unnecessary concern.

Renji's flushes, a response that Hisana doesn't quite understand. Perhaps he is embarrassed about his previous assumption? Maybe he feels remiss for not checking into the matter before now? Does he even know? From what Hisana gathers, sharing information is not something the Gotei 13  _does_. The squads work as a network of 13 tightly sealed bulwarks, nothing gets in or gets out without committee approval or an  _investigation_.

Renji nods his head. "I will inquire."

"She has been gone for nearly two months. Ordinarily, I would ask my husband about such matters, but," she doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. The giant platoon of body servants waiting outside the event speaks volumes of her husband's state of mind.

Renji raises a hand to let her know that he understands. "After the game," he says amid a frustrated sigh.

She can tell that he wants to go now. His body lurches forward, and he grips the metallic bench with white knuckles. And, in an instant, Renji sheds the sullen mien like a second skin, and the Renji that she has come to know so well reappears. The world spins a little too slowly for his liking, and he is desperate for everyone to catch up to where he wants to be.

"There's Pineapple Head!"

Hisana barely  _sees_  what happens next.

It is a blur of motion, and that blur takes a few moments for her brain to parse. First, she knows that spiritual energy. It's Yachiru. Second, her hair seemingly tumbles down her shoulders. Her hairpins, gone. Reflexively, her hands shoot up, her fingers tangle in her raven locks, and, as she suspects, nothing. When she turns to Renji, she finds her companion is fighting back an aerial assault with the hairpins.

"Get off me," Renji grouses, arms flailing defensively against Yachiru's pummeling. Or, rather,  _attempted_  pummeling. Renji is mostly successful in his efforts.

"No fun!" It takes a fraction of a second for the little girl's attention to divert from Renji to the broken hairpin clenched in her hand. Her brow grows heavy, and, her large eyes flit to Hisana.  _Oops_ , her expression seems to exclaim.

Hisana gives the little Vice Captain an even look. Wordlessly, she opens her hand, palm-side up. Yachiru obliges her silent gesture and places the broken pin carefully in Hisana's hand.

"Look what you did, Pineapple Head!" Yachiru announces before commencing a lighthearted bludgeoning.

Renji takes the child's attack good-naturedly. Although, he is likely accustomed to her spontaneous bursts of… _violence_? He is a member of the Eleventh, after all, the division that says, 'Good morning,' with a jaunty punch to the face.

"Ah, there's Abarai."

Before Hisana can mentally prepare herself, the Eleventh seemingly  _arrives_ , and she is drowning in a sea of testosterone and potent spiritual pressure. It is veritable tsunami of raw masculine power, and Hisana tries her best to brace against the wave after punishing wave that beats over her.

At least, the Captain is not in tow. Hisana would probably just throw up the white flag at that point. Even when she's perfectly  _not pregnant_ , the Kenpachi's reiatsu is enough to strip a man of all his wits—sight, smell, and hearing. It is akin to hunkering down in the middle of an everlasting concussion wave. Normally, Hisana can put on a good face around such immense power, but, for some reason, while pregnant, every little disturbance roils her.

Without hesitation, the Eleventh take over the stands, scaring most of the onlookers off with mere intimations of violence.

Briefly, Hisana considers her escape, eying one of the exits in her periphery. Before she can make good on the plan that she's hatched, she is waylaid by a few of Renji's comrades.

"Checking up on the competition," says one of the men. He is tall, bald, and he wears red eye makeup. He doesn't seem too pleased at Renji's presence as he plops down beside Renji. His limbs, sinewy and tanned from hours of training outdoors, sprawl out to claim as much real estate as he can, and he sinks into a comfortable position with his weight propped up on the backs of his elbows and his legs stretched out across another row of bleachers.

Renji acknowledges the man by name—a name that Hisana does not hear despite her best effort. Renji's voice is too low, too tense.

The man's steely gaze trails to Hisana. He doesn't know  _who_  she is or  _what_  purpose she serves. And, just when she thinks he is going to ask Renji, he barely gets a word out before Yachiru summarily screams out, "Baldy!" and latches onto his head.

He flails comically against her assault.

"Ooh," a voice coos conspiratorially close to Hisana's ear. "What do we have here?"

Reflexively, Hisana's head jerks up. A man with feather eye accessories and a well-coiffed bob proceeds to take a seat between her and Renji. The man seems oddly out of place among the Eleventh. His skin is pale and smooth, not tawny and marked like the other soldiers, and his uniform is unlike the others. He has spruced up the drab black-and-white Shihakushō with an orange breast and shoulder detachment, both of which Hisana recognizes instantly.

"Lady Kuchiki, Yumichika Ayasegawa," Renji says by way of introduction.

"A pleasure." Yumichika gives a polite nod of his head before dispensing with pleasantries completely as he unfastens his shoulder detachment and folds it back to expose the lining. "You will have to tell me about this stitching."

Hisana stares down at the accessory, blushing.

 _How embarrassing_.

She had no idea that when she agreed to patch Yachiru's cat costume that she had signed on to mend all of the Eleventh's treasured items. But, like clockwork, Yachiru came to her with large imploring eyes and an armful of worn garments each day. The garments were never uniforms. No, the Shihakushō is worn with the expectation of a short lifespan. The items that Yachiru came bearing were sentimental pieces of clothing, and, because Hisana was growing bored with doing  _absolutely nothing_ , she agreed. However, she would have thought twice about consenting had she known she might have to confront the men face-to-face about her work, especially given the Eleventh's  _proclivities_.

"Um?" The noise catches in the back of her throat, and she nearly chokes on her own spit.

"They know!" Yachiru announces mid-tussle with "Baldy."

"They know what?" Renji raises his head, and his eyes pan from Yachiru to Hisana. Clearly, Yachiru has not apprised Renji of the situation.

"Nothing," Hisana manages between wet coughs. To punctuate her meaning, which is  _Don't Ask_ , she gives a swift shake of her head.

"So, the stitch. What is it?" Yumichika asks again.

"It's just a cross stitch." Her voice goes soft, descending a few octaves, as she tries to find her confidence.

Obviously, he  _knows_  what a cross stitch is, but he humors her. "It's so intricate."

Exhaling a relieved breath, Hisana's gaze darts up to meet the man's. At least he is not  _displeased_  with her work, as she once feared. "Oh?" Feeling the sting of embarrassment burn her cheeks, she lowers her gaze again. "I could teach you if…."

Before she can complete her offer, the bald one blurts out, "So, what's the gender?"

Ah, the infamous betting pool rears its ugly head for the second time that day. How fortuitous. At least she isn't completely blindsided.

Shooting the solider a stare that could peel paint, Renji growls and gives a long disapproving shake of his head.

"Oh, don't act so high and mighty, Abarai. It's not as if you didn't—"

And, thus begins a small skirmish.

Hisana observes the fisticuffs with slack-jawed alarm.

Drawing in a long breath, Yumichika pinches the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure of an oncoming headache. "This is why we can't have nice things," he sighs to himself.

"Hey, boys!"

Hisana's eyes follow the sound of the voice. It is the woman from the toyshop, the one that told her about the betting pool and touched her belly. She stands at the foot of the bleachers. Her chest juts out, her hands cup her hips, and, as she shakes her head, her blonde curls bounce against her shoulders. "Hello!" she calls, drawing out the vowels a beat too long. When that doesn't garner the consideration that she demands, she gives a sharp piercing whistle.

That does it.

"The Eleventh is being called to the field. I mean, you're gonna lose regardless. And, while I agree that a forfeit would be more efficient use of time, it does seem a touch  _craven_."

With that, Hisana sits in absolute shock. Moments ago, she was drowning in the cacophony of male hubris, and, now, she could hear a pin drop. For all of two seconds, there is a deathly silence. Then, the trash talking commences, but, at least, the squad is making their exodus from the bleachers to the field, leaving Hisana to sew together what is left of her composure.

Renji waits for the stands to clear before he takes his leave.

"Good luck, Abarai!" she says, waving cheerfully as he pauses to give her one last look.

Breathing easy, Hisana leans forward with her chin cupped in her hand. Intrigue paints her face and lights her eyes. The game proves to be a well-matched spectacle. The Tenth has a slight edge when it comes to strategy, but the Eleventh makes up for it with sheer strength. With great amusement, Hisana watches intently, losing herself in the frenzy on the field.

She barely registers her husband's presence when he takes a seat at her side. Her unconscious mind, however, drags her attention to the side. When she turns, she finds her husband seated stone-faced, beside her.

Stunned, she shudders, and an excited mewl escapes her lungs. Her poor fragile composure unspools, and, futilely, she attempts to reel in the remainder of her good sense. Clutching her chest and gulping for air, she glimpses him between gasping and giggling at her own inelegant surprise. "Lord Kuchiki," she manages between breaths. To her amusement, he acknowledges her with an expression that is a mixture of puzzled and panicked.

"I didn't," he begins worriedly, but, before he can finish, she silences him with a shake of her head.

"It's alright," she assures him. Even though it feels like her heart has lodged in her throat, she is certain she and the children will survive to see another day.

"The servants informed me that you had not returned to the manor. I was concerned."

"I am well." Straightening her back and comporting herself, she pushes a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, and she musters a conciliatory smile.

"I was also concerned there was news."

Her brows fly up at this.  _News?_  Immediately, her mind flashes to Rukia, and her stomach churns as apprehension runs its icy fingers down her spine.  _Has he heard news regarding Rukia? The look on his face is very grave. It must be bad._

Right as her mind begins to conjure up stories of untold horrors, he proffers her a small doll, which she instantly accepts. Hungrily, her eyes roam the figurine, examining the wood and polish with intense scrutiny.  _What is this?_

"My desk is buried." He gives her a quiet look. There is a story written in those gray eyes, but she can't quite piece together the meaning. Her mind is still focused on solving the riddle of what news and a doll have to do with Rukia's whereabouts.

"It appears we are having boys," he says, likely reading her blank stare.

Hisana's head sinks down, and she smiles at her over-active imagination. The dolls were  _gifts_ , gifts provoked by some questionable inferences. "No, milord," she says gently.

"No?" He seems a touch confused. "We are not having a son?"

"Possibly. Possibly not." She doesn't know. All she has is one woman's opinion, and, while she's never been one to dispute woman's intuition, it is hardly worth getting worked up over. "I have no confirmation either way," she says with a shrug.

Byakuya exhales an uneasy breath. "Good."

* * *

Rukia tugs at the hem of her skirt and sighs. No amount of pulling will make the skirt longer just like no amount of sighing will make the situation better. Yet, her fingers continue to fiddle with the edges, skating across the zigzagging stitches, and she exhales another exasperated breath.

"This  _thing_  isn't working." She breaks her silence with a harsh tone and a quick gesture to her body, as if she is offering it for sale. She isn't, but her companion doesn't miss the opportunity to tease her.

"Looks pretty functional." Insinuation falls from his lips, and he tilts his head back. It is quick, but, for a flicker of a second, she can see his eyes. They are blue and intelligent.

They are a rare sight. She was beginning to wonder if he possessed them at all. The brim of his striped hat usually throws a deep shade over those keen eyes, veiling them and the secretive glances they surely cast.

A frown bends down her lips. "That's not what I mean," she grumbles. "It isn't restoring my power. I feel heavier than I did in the beginning."

Urahara flicks his fan open and conceals his lips behind the painted leaves. "Ah, Miss Kuchiki, you're in such a hurry."

Her eyes widen at his pronouncement. It sounds like he finds her  _impatient._  She  _isn't_  being impatient. In fact, she has been  _waiting_  rather  _patiently_  for two months. Two whole months! That's got to be a record of some sort. How long until her division comes wondering after her? Or worse! Isn't there some law? Some law that she is surely  _breaking_  by not returning to Soul Society?

Reading the worry lines that crease her brow, Urahara waves his fan in front of his face. "Aren't you still receiving transmissions?" He dips his head in the direction of her electronic communicating device.

Nervously, she toys with her Denreishinki before slipping it into a pocket of her skirt. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"They know where you are, Miss Kuchiki," he says, supremely confident in his assessment.

Her head lolls to the side. "Actually, now that you mention it—"

 _And_ , he's gone.

_Take my eyes off him for a second._

"Way to do business, Urahara!" she calls, leaning over the counter to see if she can catch him hiding in the storage room like last time.

No such luck. It's just her in that empty candy shop. All by herself.

_What a strange man._

When she is done seething, she hoists herself off the counter and throws open the door to the candy shop. She crosses the threshold into the dusk. The air is thick and humid. It clings to skin, where it sticks, threatening to draw sweat if she dares to exert herself.

How she hates that damn gigai. She could write a verse about it. It would probably win awards, big ones. Big fluffy ones, like those adorable carnival prizes.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

Rukia draws the Denreishinki from her skirt pocket. Lethargy stays her excitement as she glances down at the device. Not that it's been super accurate lately. For the past day or so, she has carted Ichigo away to find  _nothing_  at the specified coordinates.

 _Ugh._  Another sigh. It's probably the thousandth sigh in the last hour.  _C'mon, Rukia_. It starts as a jog toward the Kurosaki residence then it morphs into a sprint.

As predicted, Ichigo greets her wide-eyed exuberance with a staid expression, a shake of the head, and a firm, "Nope."

"Don't care," she says, teasingly.

Not that she blames him. If some random acquaintance kept pestering her to go to shady locations for absolutely no reason at godawful hours of the day and night, she'd resist. But, Ichigo is a pretty good sport about it all, everything considered.

It takes a good right hook to the chest, and he's free. His corporal form takes a plunge to the floor, but it's only his bedroom. If one of his sisters wanders through, she'll probably think he's  _weird_ , but, by the looks of things at the Kurosaki abode, the girls already think that about the men.

They're off without a hitch, and they're making decent time, too. For once. But, despite the hustle, when they get to the destination, there is no hollow, only a chubby plus cowering in the corner.

How irritating.

Rukia checks her Denreishinki again before beating it against a brick wall. "What is going on with you?" She chastises the device, which garners an aggravated stare from Ichigo.

"Talking  _to_  your cellphone?"

She rolls her eyes, sighs, and tries to figure out why the device keeps malfunctioning.

"This makes it—what?—the  _sixth_  time this week?" Ichigo grimaces as he stares down at the soul huddling in fear. "Next time,  _Rukia_ , keep it to yourself. I've got finals." His tone crystalizes upon speaking the last word.  _Finals_. "And your  _thing_  is obviously broken."

"It's not broken!" she counters, albeit half-heartedly.  _It just looks and acts broken…._

"If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck," Ichigo mutters to himself.

"It's not quacking," Rukia says between smashing buttons in random order.  _What the hell does that even mean?_

"It's an expression," Ichigo states cooly, and he rubs the back the of his neck.

She heaves a heavy breath into the ether. He's got a lot of those  _expressions_. She's becoming an expert on expressions. Stupid, stupid,  _expressions_.

"So, if it's not broken, then what, Rukia? Let's follow this to its logical conclusion." He's being sarcastic now.

Sarcasm and idioms—her newest best friends. Fun times are had by all, she's sure. "I don't know."

"Is there someone else taking care of the hollows?"

"Like a  _Shinigami_?" Rukia asks, rhetorically. "Can't be a Shinigami. We've got distinct patrols that correspond to specific geographical areas." Before she can complete her observation, a loud slapping thud obscures her words.

Ichigo pins the plus to the ground with his foot.

"I was so scared!" the plus says, arms straight out as if he's asking for a hug.

"Then, thank your saviors." Ichigo is in no mood to play around with Chubs McGee or Rukia, for that matter.

"Wait a minute, Ichigo." Ah, sometimes the kid has a moment of clarity. "If he's scared, then that means there was  _something_  around here."

Ichigo shoots her a bored I'm-not-indulging-your-weirdo-hypotheticals glare.

"Tell us," Rukia begins, leaning over the chubby soul, "what did the guy look like? The one that saved you?"

Wheezing from the pressure of Ichigo's heel against his windpipe, the soul takes a few gasping breaths before Ichigo lets up on him. "I don't know. I was too scared to look."

"Let's bury 'em," Ichigo growls, and he draws his sword.

"Yep. Burial time, buddy." It's the first time they've agreed on something all week.

The next day is seemingly no better, and Ichigo is even more reticent to follow her directions when she comes bursting into a conversation between him and his friends. As is usual, she grabs him by his arm, and the two mindlessly follow the device's orders.

It's another false alarm.

That evening, it's more of the same.

 _Nothing_.  _Dammit!_  Rukia was praying for a miracle this time, but there was none to be had.

"Never again, Rukia. Not until you get that thing fixed."

She gives him a pointed stare, the very one she has honed from living at Kuchiki manor.

Ichigo stands unmoved with arms folded in front of his chest. He shakes his head before speaking words of defiance. "Not no way. Not no how. Get it fixed."

"Ichigo!" she growls pleadingly and stamps her foot.

Ichigo replies with a resolute shake of the head. "Nope. F-I-N-A-L-S," he says, enunciating each letter  _real slow_  just in case she has forgotten what time it is.

"Yes, yes, yes," she mutters. "I have them, too, you know!"

"It's not the same, Rukia."

 _Touché_. He has a point. It's not like she's going to be stuck in the World of the Living  _forever_.

She hopes….

"Well," she begins, feeling the burn of defeat sink her shoulders, "get back in your body." She pulls his physical body away from a niche near an abandoned storage building. "Get in there."

Begrudgingly, Ichigo begins to return to his body. "I mean it, Rukia. You better get that thing to a repair shop or something."

"Err." She hears him. She really does. The minute that no-good Urahara returns to his shop, she will have him take a look at the device.

"A quarrel among friends? How disgraceful, Mr. Kurosaki and Miss Kuchiki."

Rukia helps Ichigo up, but both freeze at the words. Clearly, the speaker is talking to them, but, who, exactly, is it?

"Nice to meet you, too," Rukia says, voice sharp and caustic.

What a strange-looking fellow, she thinks to herself. The boy standing before them looks to be Ichigo's age, and he's outfitted in a stark white coat and white pants. A dark cross starts at the tip of his collar and extends all the way down to the hem of his coat.

"You a priest?" Ichigo asks, partly in jest and partly out of curiosity.

"Why do you know our names?" Rukia folds her arms defensively against her chest.

"Am I correct in believing you two can sense spirits?" The boy stands perfectly still, perfectly in control.

Rukia is beginning to hate this guy  _just a little._

"What are you talking about?  _Spirits_ ," Ichigo begins his deny, deny, deny routine to no avail.

This white-clad kid isn't having any of Ichigo's contrivances. He already knows the answer to the question, and he's certain of himself.

"A hollow," the stranger says, and he lifts an arm.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

Instinctively, Rukia and Ichigo huddle over her Denreishinki. "It's nearby," Rukia hastily interprets the order.

"Which direction?" Ichigo asks, trying to get a peek at her screen.

"That way, Kurosaki." The strange boy points to the left. "How pathetic. You call yourself a Shinigami yet you haven't mastered the ability to sense hollows. It's shameful, really."

Both Rukia and Ichigo look up just in time for the boy to demonstrate his skills. He calls forth a white light, drawing it into a bow that he has fashioned from spiritual energy, then he releases the arrow. Like magic, the projectile finds its target, a hollow, and skewers the beast.

Rukia's eyes widen at the spectacle.  _Oh, no. A Quincy._

That's just what she needs right now, a Quincy. Aren't they all supposed to be dead? Isn't that the history? So, why is this guy standing right there very much alive and very much a Quincy?

Rukia turns to Ichigo, who seems sincerely nonplussed. He cranes his head to get a better handle on her screen. "It's gone, Ichigo," she murmurs knowingly. Apprehension darkens her voice.

Her apprehension does not go unnoticed by either Ichigo or the nameless Quincy kid.

"What are you?" Ichigo asks, wary of this new potential threat.

"I'm Uryū Ishida, a Quincy. And, I hate Shinigami."

Rivalries forged in war die hard.

Rukia keeps these thoughts and the very bloody, very brutal history of Shinigami and Quincies to herself as she escorts Ichigo home. She listens to Ichigo's mocking tenor. Bits and pieces break through her wall of thoughts, but, mostly, she tunes out his heated irony.

"Ichigo," she begins, cutting him off mid-diatribe.

He waits for her to continue.

"Just in case that kid comes looking for you, and I'm not around." She hands him a piece of candy. "This'll do the trick."

She wakes early the next morning and goes to Urahara's shop. She bursts through the door like she's a one-woman demolition team. Fancying herself very daring and feeling full of brio, Rukia saunters across the floor, slams her hands down on the counter, and stares Urahara directly in the face.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Kuchiki," he greets with a sunny look and a grin, not the least bit perturbed by her sudden invasion into his personal bubble.

"Tell me everything you know about the Quincy."

Urahara's countenance blackens, and she has a sense that he's finally taking her seriously. "Come this way, Miss Kuchiki." Wordlessly, he leads her into the storage room, where he takes a seat on a small rug.

Rukia follows suit and lowers her Iron Maiden Glare of Doom a few notches.

"The Quincy, the Quincy, the Quincy," he repeats the name a few times to himself as if he's trying to jostle a memory loose. "I haven't heard that name in  _years_."

"Two-hundred years to be precise," Tessai interjects from behind the counter.

"Two-hundred years?" Rukia echoes. Has it really been that long? "The extermination occurred 200 years ago?"

Urahara's brows rise at this. "Ah, so you've heard about the extermination?"

Rukia shakes her head. "Just the extermination. Nothing else."

"Um." He strokes the stubble on his chin meaningfully. "I see. Well, the Quincy was a clan of warriors, who specialized in vanquishing hollows. Thing is, unlike Shinigami, the Quincy vanquished the hollows for good."

"What?" Rukia leans forward, trying her best to conceptualize exactly what Urahara is saying.

"Yep. So it goes that the Quincy wished to avenge their friends and family who had been devoured by hollows. They wanted no part in sending corrupt creatures to a peaceful end in Soul Society. So, they went about exacting their revenge to their detriment."

"What do you mean, 'to their detriment'?"

"The extermination—"

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

"Shit, not now." Rukia pulls out the Denreishinki, her eternal ball-and-chain. "I've got to," she begins, reading the coordinates, but, before she can excuse herself, the infernal beeping dies in the air.

"Huh?" Her brows furrow. "Must be Ichigo. He's gotten pretty good at this whole Shinigami thing." She scratches the back of her head nervously. It is a bad feign. She knows it. Worse, it is a bad feign in front of a master feigner.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

"Dammit." The device nearly jumps out of her hand. This time, however, she watches the screen for a moment before resolving to go after the hollow.

It disappears.

"What is happening?"

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

The Denreishinki cries out in a constant shrill electronic whine. "Are you broken?" Rukia lifts the device above her head, hoping the change in elevation will fix the problem. "Can you be broken?" No amount of adjusting and readjusting the signal will work. The ringing is near constant, and, with each passing moment, more and more disturbances appear on her screen.

"What is happening?" Absently, she steps outside, hoping something,  _anything_  will stop the stream of beeping.

"Holy shit."

The air feels electrified. The spiritual particles are humming all around her. Even in her dormant, spiritually waning state, she can sense the disruptions. But, it's not the feeling of static electricity that steals her breath and holds her gaze, it's the sky. Namely, the giant tear in the sky.

"What is  _that_?" She turns to Urahara, who has gone into a dark meditative state.

 _Not good_.

Judging by the look on Urahara's face, not good  _at all_.

 _Ichigo_.

She can only guess at what trouble he has found. That kid's not dying on her now. Not after all they've been through.

Without a second thought, she leaps off the walkway and rushes into the thick of it. Her delusions of grandeur, however, last approximately ten seconds, when she finds herself targeted by a hollow.

"Hadō #4. Byakurai," she yells at the top of her lungs.

Feeling a surge of energy heat her body, she holds her breath and watches as the spell proves to be  _absolutely useless_. "Dammit!" It's just as she suspected. She's  _not_  getting stronger in this stupid gigai!

Urahara is a peddler of canards and defective materials.

She dodges an oncoming attack but just barely, taking some damage on the landing. She crouches down and presses a hand against her leg. The laceration bleeds, but it isn't deep.

The hollow prepares another attack, and she jumps out of the way. The ground, however, proves unsteady when her feet make impact, and she stumbles to her knees.

"Get it together," she mumbles, staring into the concrete, where she sees gray asphalt and strangely familiar sandaled feet.

Her eyes go wide, her breath hitches, and her gaze trails up, following the socked feet to the familiar black hakama. A deluge of adrenaline rips through her veins, invigorating each muscle fiber on its way through her circulatory system.

"I expected more out of a fellow Vice Captain."

"Renji!"

Gruffly, he pulls her to her feet, and he dispatches the hollow with ease. "You're coming with me," he says in a cold tenor before yanking her along by the arm.

"No!" Digging her heels into the rubble, she puts on the breaks. "No, Renji, wait!" She needs him to listen to her, which isn't always the easiest thing when he gets something stuck in his head. "There are hollows. A shit ton of them! We need to do—"

He stops, frustrated by her incessant pleading. "Do you know just how much trouble you're in?"

Frantically, she shakes her head. "Please, Renji. I'm more than happy to return to Soul Society, but, please, just hear me out. I've got—"

"Let her go, Shinigami."

Renji and Rukia both turn to find the strange white-clad boy standing before them. Rivulets of blood trickle from his fingertips, and, by the looks of him, he appears to be spent from the onslaught of hollows. Yet, he reaches for another arrow.

"Let go of Miss Kuchiki."

Renji stares at the kid, fucking astounded. "You've got to be kidding me."

Nope. Uryū is most definitely serious, like a damn heart attack, that one.

Renji rolls his neck and braces his Zanpakutō against his shoulder. "Step aside, human. You've got no business with us."

"Unhand Miss Kuchiki, first."

Rukia shakes her head. "Ishida, go."

"Who the hell are you?" Renji's tone goes from exasperated to demanding.

"A classmate. One, who hates Shinigami."

Renji arches a brow. "A  _classmate_ , Rukia?" Belying his spoken sentiment is one of a different stripe:  _Please tell me this is some sort of bad joke, Rukia._

"It's okay, Ishida. We—" Rukia makes a gesture between herself and Renji. "—we know each other." As if  _knowing_ each other should make everything  _better_. What a dumb response, she chastises herself.

Unsurprisingly, her flimsy appeal doesn't convince Uryū to stand down. Instead, he remains stoic and motionless.

"What the hell is going on?"

 _Ichigo_.

Rukia shivers.  _Oh, Ichigo._ She has a sinking feeling that this isn't going to end well.

"Who the hell are you?" Renji growls, scrutinizing the teenager. "What division? And, more importantly, what's up with that ridiculously huge sword?"

Ichigo glares at Renji. "Ichigo Kurosaki. No division. And, well, I guess my sword is big. What's wrong with  _that_?"

Renji's eyes widen at this, and he chuckles, as if he finds this entirely too farcical. "I get it, now." His smile fades, and his expression goes wolfish. "You're the kid that took Rukia's power."

Reading the signs well enough to know that the situation is going from bad to deadly, Rukia springs forward and stands with arms raised defensively between the boys. "I really think we have some, you know,  _pressing_  matters to which to attend right now. Particularly,  _I don't know_ , the giant gaping hole in the sky and all the hollows falling out of it. Maybe we can save the getting-to-kill-you chitchat for  _afterward_?"

On cue, a giant disturbance crashes over the fearsome foursome.

"Do you feel that?" Ichigo asks, eyes flitting to Rukia.

Stiffly, she gives a nod of her head. "Yeah."

"Menos Grande," Renji murmurs.

"Menos Grande," Rukia confirms, glancing down at her Denreishinki. "We're gonna have to work together." It isn't a suggestion. It's a  _fact_. The horde has become too numerous, and, with a Menos in the mix, things have the potential to get real ugly, real fast.

Ichigo's gaze shifts to Ishida. "Think we can shelf the differences for a few minutes?"

Ishida prickles at the question, but his silence speaks volumes.

Ichigo then glances over at Renji and jerks his chin up. "So, who the hell are you?"

With eyes focused on the horizon, Renji cocks a brow. "Renji Abarai, Vice Captain of the Thirteenth."


End file.
